Broken Soldier
by tigers-snipers-and-rifles
Summary: Sherlock has been supposedly dead for three years and John is not taking it as well as he thought. He pays a visit to St. Bart's and finds the man he has grieved over for years, but is it real, or just what John wants to believe? (Johnlock)


_Three damn years, _John thought miserably.

Those three years had left him numb. Bleak and broken, left to fend for himself and haunted by the same images every time he dared to close his eyes. Sleep never came; the bed abandoned for nights upon end, never occupied. The television was left blaring all night just to avoid the unwelcome silence, unless Mrs. Hudson ascended the stairs to turn it off as a habit now. Food went out of date, science equipment on the table left untouched, visitors went ignored. He saw through each and every one of them, always listening, watching, but never absorbing information nor faces.

He had lost his job, his best friend, and damn nearly his own flat. Sherlock would have called it idiotic, but when the thought crossed his mind, it was simply disregarded. He was a mess, and he knew it. He knew deep down he needed to get himself sorted out, looked after, but he refused everyone's help, including Mrs Hudson's. Molly had attempted to call him, as well as Lestrade. Their texts were forgotten, never checked anymore. Notifications went amiss. His mobile remained off nowadays. Even Mycroft had tried to get in touch, but no exceptions were made for him. Their sympathy was not wanted. It did not stop the pain that ate at him.

"You're foolish," Sherlock would have told him, "Wasting your life rotting in the flat."

He had learned to ignore those thoughts too, as well as the unnecessary concern from others. _I'm fine_, he would lie to himself each day, and carry on as he had, allowing his problems to bottle up inside him without stopping to acknowledge the possible consequences.

_You're a soldier_, John would tell himself, but he had stopped fighting a long time ago. The battle was lost. Without anything to fight for, to give him a purpose, made him useless. A soldier was not worthy of such a title when he gave up.

Sighing in defeat of his raging thoughts, John took a large swig of the tequila he held in hand. The liquid burned at his throat, and not in the pleasant manner. It hurt. John ignored the pain, pressing the bottle to his lips once more, craving the comfort of the alcohol to lull him into a false sense of security. It helped him sleep. Alcohol was his main source of comfort now. _It is not like you to stoop so low, John,_ he could hear Sherlock say to him.

John brushed the thought aside. Stiffly pushing to his feet, he grimaced when he put too much pressure on his leg. It had started hurting again shortly over a month or so of Sherlock's death. Today was the third anniversary. He had not visited the grave.

Not bothering with a taxi, John staggered his way there in the dark, soaked within seconds of leaving the flat. It was late, so no one was in sight and very little cars passed. The rain pelted down onto London's streets as he entered the nearest twenty-four hour liquor store, managing to buy a bottle of whiskey to rid himself of his angry thoughts that continually pestered his mind. It was slowly resulting in a headache. The man at the counter gave him a suspicious look as John paid with his credit card (the task of entering the pin taking a few attempts) and left, screwing the top off the bottle and downing the drink, letting it slide down his throat with ease.

Reaching St. Bart's took longer than expected. He almost collapsed on the way there and was drenched by the time the building came into view. John made his way to the roof, seating himself down on the edge and appreciating the view of lights across the city. He took another swig of the whiskey, glancing down at where Sherlock had once lain. It was some distance from the roof to the ground, resulting in a nasty fall. Moriarty had somehow persuaded Sherlock; he was positive of it, but it irritated him to not know what. Why had Sherlock committed suicide? There had been no reason for him to without it being a bothersome one.

Before he knew, the tears were streaming down his cheeks from his welling eyes. At first, John wanted to believe it was the rain, but he knew better. His shoulders shook as the sobs racked his drunken form, shoving the bottle from himself in a fit of both anger and grief. The bottle slipped off the edge and fell, the crash of glass against the ground making him jump, startled by the sound that seemed to ring in his ears.

_John_, Sherlock said softly inside his head, the single word comforting. To hear the detective say his name was more effective than he might have imagined at first. _John_, the voice insisted, and John snapped back to his senses.

"Sherlock?" He voiced out loud, his head spinning round to where he had heard his name being called. For a moment his heart stopped, choking on what he had been about to say. "No-" John unstably stood up, wavering on the spot slightly that nearly had him falling to the ground again. Before him stood the man that had jumped from this very roof, the same man whom he had mourned for all those years.

"What have you done to yourself?" Sherlock questioned, his voice quiet, barely audible. "When was the last time you ate?" Concern washed over him. John could not remember the last time he had eaten, but it must have been a number of days now. He was unhealthily thin, his cheeks sunken in that made him look much older than he was. There were dark rings under his eyes from a lack of sleep and his posture was off due to his bad leg. And yet it was strange that it was not the other way around, that John was not asking that very same question about eating to Sherlock.

"You were meant to forget about me, John. Find someone. Have a family, perhaps. But this- this is not what I thought you would do. If I had known-"

"Forget about you?" John almost spat. "Do you know how hard that is?! Do you think I haven't tried endless times?" He shouted, holding back the hot tears that pricked at his eyes. This was not Sherlock. He was seeing things. The drink was having an effect on him. John regretted drinking so much now. It was doing him no good and it never had. But this was all inside his head. He was sure of it.

"I know, and I'm sorry. But I had to - for you. Moriarty, he-"

Again John cut him off, "You're not real," he shook his head in disbelief, denying everything. He was dreaming, or too drunk. This was all in his head. Just like every other thought or words spoken by Sherlock.

The detective looked hurt by that. "I'm as real as I will ever be, John," he replied, "I know... I know this is hard, but... _please_, hear me out first."

John ran a hand down his face in frustration, tears threatening to pool over. He nodded, allowing the taller man to speak without question: "Moriarty had everything planned out. He meant for me to kill myself. He said he would not call off his snipers if I did not jump, and he gave me no other choice. The only way he would be enabled to do so was if he were alive, and so he shot himself to prevent that. Molly helped, with the fake body. The cyclist - he knocked you over so you were distracted. I told you to stay where you were, so in 'killing myself', I could land in the truck below which was concealed behind that wall," he motioned with his hand, "You could not see me fall, other than when I jumped. The truck drove off, and the cyclist knocking you over gave those helping me time to set the body down, for you to find." Sherlock explained.

Taking everything in, John failed to comprehend exactly what Sherlock was telling him as the alcohol clouded his mind. "Molly knew the whole time and never told me..." John said quietly. He felt betrayed. "Who else knew? Was I the only one who didn't? Has everyone else been hiding this from me?" He demanded.

"Only Mycroft knows, that is all," Sherlock admitted. He hated to see John abusing his own system with alcohol. He had never seen him in this state before. "I requested that he keep an eye on you."

"Oh, well that's just _great_, isn't it!" John exclaimed sarcastically, dangerously hovering close to the edge of the building. Sherlock advanced a few steps closer, worry flashing in his eyes. John continued, "You think you can fake your death and disappear for three years and just come back - just like that?" He slurred. "Well you're wrong. I'm fine. I always have been." John swayed a little with his gradually boiling anger.

"John, please," Sherlock's brows furrowed with concern. "You're too close to the edge. Come over."

On the words, John let his eyes fall to where the ground was. He gave it no consideration. The alcohol had already properly kicked in. Again the tears fell, his body shaking. "I asked for a miracle, Sherlock, but never this. I don't even know if you're real, or if I'm seeing things, or dreaming, but I do know one thing: You left. You left me by myself, and I suffered, all right? I did; I didn't know what to do with myself. And if what you say is true, why didn't you come back earlier? Why leave it until now?" He cried in anguish, "You could have left a text, a call, maybe even have Molly or Mycroft tell me, anything to let me know you were alive, you bastard!"

"It wasn't safe, John. You could have been killed," Sherlock's voice broke, "I've already been targeted. And you could have been too if a certain man knew I was alive."

"Which man?" John swallowed hard, finding difficulty in controlling his uneven breaths.

"An ex-colonel. Former sniper and second hand man of Moriarty: Sebastian Moran. He has been hiding out in India. I tracked him down, but he hides his tracks well. Seeking revenge for his employer's death, no doubt."

John did not quite care for that, but rather about Sherlock's 'death'. "I won't lie when I say I bloody missed you, Sherlock. I did not think I was even capable of such emotions. But tell me: Why? Why did you jump? What reason did you need for those snipers to be called off? Called off what?"

"You. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade too. Moriarty had you targeted. In order to save you all, I had to kill myself in the process, otherwise my friends would have died in my place. Moriarty knew exactly what he was doing, and he did it well. I 'died' to save _you_, John."

Nodding, John stepped closer to the edge. "That's good enough for me." He let himself slip.

Sherlock ran forward with a cry of distress, his fingers briefly brushing across John's when he desperately reached out to grab him, unable to catch a grip of the man as he plummeted.

Then, as the pavement and promise of cold, wet concrete rushed up to meet him, John closed his eyes, Sherlock being the last face he ever wanted to see as the impact of the ground knocked every sense from him and blanketed the world in darkness.

And for the first in a long time, John Watson was happy.


End file.
